


A String Instrument Made of Matches

by orphan_account



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Alternate Realities, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dreams and Nightmares, Hobbies, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Musical Instruments, Mutual Pining, Shippy Gen, Shopping Malls, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Space Mall (Voltron), Strangers to Lovers, War Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:48:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Matt attempts to recoup losses on a broken aircraft by converting them into hasty, laser cut instruments. He rents a temporary stall at the nearest trade moon, and is greeted by a curious stranger on a slow day.(A story that starts with Lotor buying two tambourines from a rebel’s pop-up shop.)





	1. Matchstick Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> This is an extension of the concept of my prior fic, Golden Lyre, though it can be read as a standalone.
> 
> For viewer reference (not necessary to enjoy the story, but fun to watch):  
> [A video of tambourine techniques.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3nAVMOMrUac)

Tambourines are best sellers, followed by stiff, uniformly shaped drums. Matt anticipated as such. They take little finesse to start and enjoy, and make a delightful, violent clang. The startup cost: a prized harmonica that made its home wedged in his boot, bartered to an Unilu salesman for a Balmeran crystal shard the size of a child’s fist. Too small to run anything useful or modern, but sufficient for running the small parts section of the abandoned factory in his makeshift outpost. For maximum efficiency and minimal programming hurdles, he aimed for simple, uncomplicated shapes.

Financially, the trade is a success. He has recouped his losses and made profit within three movements, with one phoeb left in the contract. Sometimes, he replays in his mind the paper tears in Katie’s duck gift wrap that enrobed her present, or the storekeeper’s reverence at the climax of his song. He’s since made three replacements to offer to his family, should that moment ever arrive.

(Harmonicas are not for sale in this shop.)

The average customer is a blurry mesh of pariah class: working Galra unfit for military, weeping old maids that sob at the gentle clanging of bells, and excited youth that bash out musical ruckus with a fervor he almost yearns to rob from them. An aggressively friendly mall cop stops by to hear him play during slow hours, and sometimes brings him food from the stands, which Matt declines or accepts depending on how edible it appears. He seems personable enough, for a Galra, and has already figured out that shakes are more palatable to the human by virtue of not being a mishmash of unappetizing mystery textures.

“So… Does your kind only consume fluids?” Varkon asks, eyes watching Matt pluck a tune on a guitar model that remains largely untouched. Too many weird little dingles, his quasi-friend has helpfully suggested. People buy these so they don’t have to think for a while. The strings scream of having to think and calculate. Matt is inclined to sympathize, though the strumming does lure buyers inside, even if they end up buying something less intimidating instead.

“Um. Depends on how old or sick they are.”

“Huh. Weird.” A pause; his tone turns concerning. “Are you okay?”

“I’m raising money to get my grundle fixed,” Matt says, deadpan.

“Ah yea, I forgot some of you guys are incompatible with pods. I need to save up for one of those jingle dudes, then. Victory or death.”

“Vrepit sa, etc etc.”

Varkon nods, then shuffles towards the exit with a hasty goodbye once a customer files in. Matt lumps the stranger tentatively into Galra (tall, purple), diluted with Tolkien-style elf (absurd fantasy hair tied in uniformly spaced bands, pointed ears, distressingly humanoid). Bland garments hang on him loosely and in inoffensive colors, as though he is making a concentrated effort not to be noticed. Matt holds back a suggestion to stuff the toe of the stranger’s boot with a pebble to alter his gait, or at least to cover his head. That’s second base on first sight, for a rebel.

“Try the tambourines,” he says instead, offering one from the displays.

The customer obliges, clinking little cymbals one by one with a retracted claw. He raises his eyebrow at the results; more shimmer than sound. Two fingers tap after aching pauses; Matt watches in consternation. He’s only playing 10 percent of the instrument.

“More like this,” he intervenes, grabbing a spare and rapping the body of it with the base of his free palm. The beat is steady, slow, and dirge-like. “Imagine soldiers marching.”

(War imagery. It leads to easy sales with no finesse.)

His visitor watches with a discerning eye. Matt’s lips purse in anxious professionalism; he modifies the performance closer to his current level and is met with further silence. Shouldn’t this guy be saying something by now? So many of them love to talk his ear off. Maybe offbrand drow wants a fight instead. He’s surprised it hasn’t happened sooner; civilians have spoiled him with a mundane veil from the reality of war-

-Hands gingerly clasp his own, engulfing the vice grip he has on the transformed scraps of his ruined vessel. Too cold to be human, but decidedly non-threatening. Matt’s breath slows. He swallows the anger at the back of his throat like a horse pill.

“It’s beautiful.” A pause; deliberate. “You seem tired. Should I come back later?”

“No worries.” He flashes a retail smile. “Long day, you know?”

“Indeed. I apologize for the misunderstanding. Speaking would have ruined it.”

_(Oh.)_

The rebel falters. “Thank you.”

“I’ll take two.”

Matt obliges, digesting the compliment like swallowing a cherry whole. He nearly feels guilt over the excessive markup, but not quite. By the end of a varga, the stranger is largely forgotten. His acquaintance returns to offer him an assortment of odd liquids for mid-lunch in exchange for a music lesson. One tastes vaguely of the abstraction of banana flavor they have on earth (as opposed to actual bananas, which are long extinct). Like marching. One and two and one and two, until he finally gets to leave.

He locks down the doors, checks his belongings, and heads up the escalator. The Unilu running a now-familiar antique store smiles genuinely at his arrival, and offers a basket of cube shaped grain snacks. Matt eats three and peruses the shop, weighing flotsam and jetsam of the dead with practiced detachment.

“This looks like this needs to be played with enormous lungs,” he says, waving in the direction of a nightmare tuba larger than his entire body.

“Haven’t heard the wind from these since Gran was alive. Makes a beautiful noise, but you’re not equipped for it.”

“I might not, but Grey on the other side of the mall has a leaf blower on display that could work as a rig.”

“...You’re ruining me, kid,” he replies, digging into an embroidered purse.

Matt’s lips purse into a thin grimace. “You don’t have to, Gramps.”

“Exact change,” the old man grumbles, depositing GAC and two ration bars into his palms. He’s rushed out the door and hurries down the path, but stops upon finding the prim Galra from earlier in the day by the food court. The creature’s posture is inhumanly ramrod; a sore thumb against the backdrop of slouching civilians. A meal tray is left half eaten, in favor of the tambourine. He flicks his wrist with careful deliberation; the sound is like the slow rattle of a snake tail.

Matt stares; swallows a dry lump. He pictures running a thumb across the butterfly ends of the Galra’s ears. The stranger sips from a juice cup and meets his eyes.

“Ah, hello-”

“-Sorry, catch you later!”

 _(shit shit shit shit shit shit_ )

Go to the Grey’s trashy Earth souvenir shop. Get a discount leaf blower. Attach it to stretchy airtight Yalmor innards, then attach innards tube to Lovecraftian hell tuba. Press buttons. He anticipates struggling; the instruments here aren’t made with human sensibilities. Dead alien civilizations love confusing tonal combinations. Pass go, collect 200 dollars-

“I got half a mind to send you home,” Gramps tells him after pocketing change. Then, softer: “You’re new to this shitshow. It’s awful. Anyone purple makes you jump. I get it.”

“It’s just indigestion,” Matt replies, in between configuring several power settings to prevent overjuicing the leaf blower. “Just like our Yalmor over here. Died of indigestion.”

“You know how hard it is to get used to you doing things for me for free?” The man asks, refusing to drop what he began. “I keep thinking you’ll pull me a fast one, but no. _Blessings of the lion goddess,_ that’s just how you _are._ ”

“Prone to intestinal tract issues?” he says, smile unconvincing.

“That’s why it’s hard for you. I get it. I’m grateful, and I get it.”

They assemble the rest of the contraption in silence. Its sound is the somber child of rolling thunder and a bagpipe. Matt thinks that the warbling rendition of twinkle twinkle that pours from it is barely a melody, but the Unilu allows himself the luxury of palms fisted over his heart, so that must count for something. The noise draws stragglers remaining in the mall near closing hours, and a small crowd forms to watch the performance. From the throng, a Galra raises his hand. It’s that princely one; when is this guy going to leave?

“How much?”

“It’s not for sale,” Gramps says, stiff, but resolute. “You are, however, all welcomed to browse the rest of my wares.”

“An Unilu, holding out?” Another passerby adds to the mix. “What, you think the people who shop here are broke?”

“The instrument is for demonstration purposes only,” he smooths out. “We’ll have others in stock.”

‘Demonstration purposes’ is far less prickly than ‘Belonged to my dead comrade, last of his kin. Kindly piss off.’ And piss off they eventually do, leaving Matt’s nerves to collect themselves. His friend stores the instrument rig in a garbage truck of a ship, with a thanks and a goodbye. Meanwhile, Matt heads for the swap moon’s two star motel lodgings. Its occupants are equal parts moon employees and ambiguous drifters, with overlap in between.

The resistance has yet to slot a more permanent place for him, and the last debacle called for either money to replace a ruined ship, or a resignation. Growing pains, he tells himself. Indigestion. He rigged the listening port for automation, a benefit to the cause, but terror makes a slop of already nonexistent combat skills.

“Need that surgery for my grundle,” Matt mutters, aiming a balled up sock at the door. He tosses himself onto the bed, and thinks of burying grimy nails into the handsome stranger’s bound strands. He wants to leave wash-resistant blood stains on the nondescript gray of the man’s shawl, he wants to see Katie again, he wants-

“Air. I want air,” he says resolutely, and storms off to the common lounge. Design wise, it reminds him of turn of the century college dorms, with functional living rooms for a pod of four to eight students to encourage sociability. In this case, budget lodgings barely scrape closet size, but space farers accustomed to cramped slots would likely consider them generous. Paranoid fugitives rarely visit shared areas unless necessary, so Matt always has this lounge to himself (to play pocket instruments, or to howl and shriek for roughly an hour- whichever was more appealing that day).

He nearly drops his harmonica when he finds the same mall Galra on one of the stiff benches, hair unfurled like a tired flag. The alien plays his tambourine with frenetic energy while staring at the ceiling; face blank and placid. Matt wants to sob, or to kiss him on the mouth, but he bites his lower lip instead.

“We keep running into each other,” the man says, with a smile that is both hesitant and disarming.

“I’m sorry,” Matt replies on autopilot. He winces immediately at his mistake, and braces for conflict, only to deflate when the Galra’s mouth softens into something resembling understanding.

“I appreciate it,” he answers gently, and begins to return items strewn on the table into a satchel. The stranger nods a goodbye, and leaves the room.

Matt observes; immobile.

 

* * *

 

He looks like an Altean with pieces missing. The ears are wrong; the frame is too bird-boned. With the planet’s fractured history, it’s not improbable for an offshoot hybrid to thrive in a backwater star system, spared from the mainland’s demise. Over-vigilance, however, led him into thinking that the drifter was one of the witch’s spliced puppets at first. The fears subside quickly; none of her abominations have a penchant for art.

It’s potentially an empath branch, Lotor theorizes, with a location strategically useless to the empire. Art is the first to go upon heavy colonization. He must be making bank at the music booth, for a noncombatant. Hopefully war never ruins wherever that person is from.

They meet in similar circumstances the next quintent. Lotor has holed himself up in the empty lounge with dinner and the jangling toy, and opts to stay this time when the man arrives. The intruder fumbles with his curious wind instrument and mutters an apology. Lotor smiles, embarrassed somehow, and gestures towards the cooling food.

“Ordered too much. Would you like some?”

A quick sniff of the air. “Smells better than I remember,” he replies, and sits across, eying the meal.

“He’s breaking food prep regulations. That’s why it’s better,” Lotor says with a conspiratorial grin. “ _Excess finery strays a warrior’s soul._ Personally, I doubt a bit of seasoning does lasting harm.”

“Ah. Well, thanks,” says his companion, exercising caution with a neutral response. He at least accepts the food, and unfolds one of the disposable bowls to pick portions from shared containers.

Lotor’s gaze strays towards slim, uncovered fingers; whatever those touch, they must do so with precision. The bulk of their meal is eaten wordlessly. He wonders if the man’s bones are hollow, and thinks of dried red blossoms in the wrists of holy dead from his failed colony. Sal uses a citrus toned variant of those flowers on the meat glaze. The index twitches; a mental scolding comes like clockwork.

( _It’s bad praxis to romanticize death,_ he repeats like a curse, but knowing it cerebrally and knowing it by heart are two different things.)

“Matt,” says his new friend, looking him directly in the eyes. “Call me Matt.”

“Lotor,” he returns, the feeling not unlike cupping a flame in the cold and eagerly burning his hands.


	2. Last Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt attempts to teach Lotor guitar and origami.

Lotor finds, too late for his liking, that Haggar is unlikely to search for him among the common populace. Her interest in stalking him waxes and wanes every few centuries. Par for the course, he's prepared errands for his generals to tend to while he waits the phase out in a trade moon. The blind spot does not surprise him; a royal scientist would find mingling with riffraff distasteful.  
  
Should anyone display interest, the alibi is long set. A niche job translating texts from ancient civilizations via neural network and spotty illustration gigs is just enough to fund a theoretical nomadic lifestyle eked out in trade moon motels. (It was “traveling healer” prior to succumbing to wish fulfillment via disguise.)  
  
Matt asks about his drawings in between gulps of savory soup. Lotor chalks it up to practice, and allows a view of his hardbound journal filled with crowds, architecture, and fauna. He devours the admiration for his work in the quiet ticks between page flips. A stray thumb lingers on his self portrait; long enough to be noticed.  
  
“So,” says the traveler after returning his book, “Since you've been feeding me, do you want to be paid in lessons?”  
  
“Excuse me?” Lotor starts, only to breathe a sigh of relief when Matt retrieves a boxy, lute-like instrument from his bag. “Ah. I appreciate the offer, but I'm not going to understand it.”  
  
“I don't think it will be hard for you,” Matt says reassuringly. He strums a basic chord. “I mean, you've pretty much mastered drawing already.”  
  
“Well, it would be like trying to teach a person to see green, who lacks the receptors for it.”  
  
“But- the tambourine--”  
  
“Not the hardest thing in the world. Once you throw notation into the fray, however, most Galra won't process it. We can appreciate music, certainly, and even memorize actions and button presses, but leave us without a pattern and it is significantly more difficult.”  
  
“...You tried to buy the tuba, back at the mall,” Matt says with a half smile. Then, quieter: “Besides, all learning starts out with mimicry of a pattern anyway, before you know it by heart.”  
  
The man takes a moment to consider, but continues to politely decline. His companion clicks his tongue in disapproval. Skilled fingers strum a melody reminiscent of a lively, turbulent barrage, as though the topic was never discussed. Lotor leans back onto the bench, picking at a cold meal. He closes his eyes. This stranger has no intent to harm him, piquant mannerisms aside. The courtesy is more comforting than his inability to do lasting damage.

“You know,” Matt starts, notes slowing to a languid slide, “I thought everyone here had universal translators at first. I had no idea it was the quintessence doing all the work.”

“Is your star system in a no-fly zone?” Lotor asks. That would explain the unfamiliarity, at least.

“Totally Space Australia,” he answers nebulously with a wave of the hand. “Our food’s good, though. Maybe you should visit.”

“Ohs… trelly-uh,” Lotor tests the word on his tongue. “Is that your planet?”

“No.”

“...Noted.”

Matt flicks at the instrument with a frown. “That must mean that free-floating energy picked at my brain and decided to give you a Hollywood shorthand fantasy British accent as the closest approximate.”

“Yes,” Lotor says, not entirely following.

“What happens if I talk in gibberish?”

“Ah...” He sets aside the eating utensils, quashing the urge to make an unflattering face. “I would hear gibberish.”

“Good,” Matt says, holding up the not-lute to strum and straightening his back.

He begins to sing; a gentle, steady sound backed with his lyre. It is indeed gibberish; the words are disjointed syllables devoid of meaning. And yet, Lotor leans in despite already being too close to be polite. Stripped of spoken language, it is as though he hears the drifter’s voice for the first time: a thin, wavering stream of water that can eventually erode stone.

Though far from his usual prerogative, for tonight, he is fine with being eroded. The speed this stranger has brought him to welcoming oblivion terrifies Lotor; but not enough to ask him to stop. Stranger still, he picks up random words translated in bursts, like spots of brightness behind a veil, or a poorly patched security glitch. Matt’s pace is cool and even, nearing cruel as the sound cascades to its ending.

Lotor holds his breath.

“You’re incredibly skilled,” he says at last, the empty space like the pitch black of an old well.

“I could use a throat lozenge,” Matt replies with a sheepish grin, dismissive.

 

* * *

 

For the incoming message, Lotor clears the camera’s narrow line of sight of the hotel room of any signs of mortal daily life. He dons the upper shell of his armor for the sake of presentation; his general won’t see his lower half in loose slacks, or freeze dried meals neatly arranged in an opposite desk for later consumption.

Zethrid’s figure cracks and bends in the pirate reception; it will have to do until the threat subsides. Lotor fixes his posture to something presentable in his cramped quarters as he greets her. She’s pleased, barely able to contain a grin.

“Sir, I received your package,” she starts, the joy in her voice held back by formality. “The shape is different, but it does very much function like the instrument my grandfather used.”

“You’ve earned it,” he says smoothly, his own tambourine under folded clothes in a motel drawer.

“Do you mind if I show the others when they return?” she asks, softer yet still eager.

“I don’t see why not,” Lotor replies, a gnawing in his mind because she bothered to ask.

They end the call. He rummages through the nondescript sacks he has opted to wear for the indulgence he’s bothered to buy, and taps it violently against the bedding.

 _Like soldiers marching,_ Matt said then, bristling under his gaze.

Lotor is unsure if he wants to be with him or _become_ him. A life that carefree in an era like this is downright enviable. He doesn’t doubt that the money is well earned; with easy resources afforded to melt down old metals, few would think to make unique contraptions from salvaged pieces of old ships. It’s forcible alchemy of things that ought to die; tipping a fine line between homage and disrespect.

(Not too far removed from his mother’s Robeast playthings, with the same amount of witchcraft involved in assembly.)

Does the thought even cross that drifter’s mind? Does his kind wear their dead as talismans and armor? He doubts they will be in each other’s company long enough to ask.

 

* * *

 

Apparently Grey’s _Terra_ shop has become something of a niche enthusiast haven. The ‘toys’ afforded there have incredibly low energy consumption, require power converters to prevent blowing out, and tend to radiate heat. The lights last for several trips, can be waterproofed with gut coatings, and double as a low grade heater for the energy cost of a crystal smaller than a pinprick. Adventurers flock to the store for a myriad of multi-purpose novelty supplies.

The thought of Earth’s appliances being considered energy saving is an irony not lost on Matt, who has come here to find a guitar tab book, however unlikely.

“You never take me up on the free Kaltenecker,” the shopkeep says with a frown. “They’re lovely, affectionate things, and prettier than a yupper.”

“I would if I had room,” Matt replies, raising an eyebrow at an unusually hefty, battered instruction manual for an air fryer next to a how-to book on origami.

“Ah, those are popular for the creative types,” he says in full salesman mode. “Few bother with the art of paper making with screens readily available.”

“Do you have any that are blank?”

“Goodness no. The point of these is the texture! You add little splatters to it and make it your own!”

Matt rolls his eyes; the gesture is a meaningless facial quirk here. He takes both into his bag and offers the meager sum for them, which Grey happily accepts. “Thanks. By the by, is your supplier a trade secret? I don’t see things like this anywhere else.”

The alien grows defensive. “You already have your little noise makers. If I told you, I’d have competition.”

“Gotcha.”

He stops Sal’s for a berry drink before heading for the courtyard filled with red petaled trees. Susee, the Unilu girl working at the front kiosk, greets him with a vice grip embrace only four arms could provide, and releases him to scratch at her undercut.

“Matt, is there a wrong way to play the gee-tuur I bought?” she asks, pulling it out of her purse as they head to the open air. Flowers fall and scatter; small, delicate things slightly larger than his thumb.

“As long as you make a nice sound out of it, you can play it however you like,” he says.

She seats herself on one of the benches after brushing away stray red petals. According to Gramps, this passage was made as a showcase of tense, natural scenery to encourage defensive spending. Susee doesn’t understand why it’s both their favorite place to stop by for a meal break.

“So, like this.” She holds the guitar vertically with the front on her lap, reminiscent of how one would prop up a cello. The top rests under her chin while she plucks the instruments with the precision of four hands. It is almost a melody; the technique impresses enough to ignore the haphazard splay of notes. Matt claps enthusiastically at the end.

_(Dad would have loved to see this.)_

“You only use two and it sounds better,” Susee scowls.

“If I had four I would use all four.”

“You’d be too overpowered, but I’d like to hear how that sounds-” she cuts off, eyes squarely at the exit. Matt follows her gaze, and finds Lotor by the passage, watching them both with an unreadable expression.

_(Blessings of the lion goddess, that’s just how you are.)_

“Change your mind about the lesson?” Matt says with a wave. Lotor smiles nervously as though unaccustomed to being regarded; Susee’s posture relaxes at his hesitance. He’s drawn to Matt like a kite on a string; she shoves the guitar unceremoniously onto his hands as the gap closes.

“Don’t scuff it,” she says with a grin. Lotor holds it gingerly.

“The strings are made of stretched Yalmor lungs,” Matt starts. Lotor plucks at them with hesitation. “They hold their shape well, so you won’t need to tune it unless you want a different scale.”

Susee watches critically as the Galra works through the strings one by one. “He says the default is in ‘E pentatonic’ or some nonsense. You don’t need to know what any of that stuff means to get the hang of it to start, though.”

“Just go up and down like that for a while to get a feel for it,” he adds, taking note of the steady, if stilted rhythm Lotor plays. “If that holding position is good for you, then stick with it.”

Matt points at the raised white bands on the neck. “These things are the frets. If you press the strings on them while you play, they’ll produce a different sound than just strumming them. Once you get the hang of it you’ll probably have different combinations of sounds that you prefer to others.”

This is how he teaches guitar for aliens: with minimal formal instructions to make room for foreign preferences that humans could not take into account. Lotor goes about the different frets methodically, not unlike how shoppers would cross off words from a grocery list one by one after said item has been acquired. Matt is quick to admire the speed of which the man has caught the basics, but he abruptly returns the instrument to the girl.

“Thank you, but I don’t think this is right for me,” he says apologetically, and retreats towards the exit.

Susee stares unapologetically as he leaves, with the bluntness typical of an Unilu. “That a friend of yours?”

“Sort of?” Matt isn’t so sure himself.

“Probably thought I was gonna charge him for playing it by the minute,” she says with a shrug. “He doesn’t look full Galra, so there’s a good chance he’s broke.”

Matt says nothing; eyes fixed on the doors where the other stood.

“He doesn’t seem like he’s trouble, though,” Susee adds, returning her guitar into her bag. Her expression softens. “If you go after him I don’t think he’ll hurt you.”

 

* * *

 

“If there is no exact meaning in the receiver’s language, the quintessence won’t translate it, or will offer a rough estimation.” Lotor hands him a sturdy mug filled with sour mushroom stew. “There is a lot of their excess energy left over after emissions, so they tend to translate on their own when idling.”

"Alright. They’re made from broken up dead things and they’re bored, so they do this to kill time,” Matt adds, a tad too crass for his liking. “Tick versus second. In our language tick is the sound a clock makes when it counts a second, so it’s the approximate that it made.”

“What are those books you brought here?” Lotor asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“I wanted to teach you how to make a lotus.” Matt takes the larger one, and rips pages from the binding. Lotor winces as he tears them into neat, small squares. “Relax. There’s nothing important in these. It’s an instruction manual for an appliance that was sold separately, so the thing is long gone.”

“Why would one make something so insignificant in such a delicate format?”

“We’re space apes,” Matt says, dull and monotone. “We don’t have tech nearly as advanced as what Galra have, but we had plenty of stuff to make paper out of.”

Lotor nods, not entirely convinced.

He opens the smaller, square shaped book, and points towards a diagram. “You can follow this, right?”

\-------

The resulting flower is lumpier than he would like next to Matt’s clean folds. Later, in the privacy of his room, he tosses his imperfect attempt into the chute and pockets the drifter's piece with his belongings after coating it with waterproofing shellac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Matt sings can be any song sung in an invented language, but I had [Origa's cover of Yoko Kanno's Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-TWyWaxOns) in mind because it feels similar to Italian in enunciation. He would be singing the Japanese portion mostly phonetically, which would account for why the quintessence would not entirely translate it.
> 
> This is [the lotus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t98ldoAnDMA) they make in this chapter; it is good for beginners.
> 
> Matt's guitar builds are based off [cigar box](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOUlgYCX_Uw) [guitars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mfPVrBNhIuw).
> 
> Thank you for reading so far. This was better received than I had anticipated; the popularity of Mattor as a rarepair is a fun surprise.


	3. Compartments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to woo an acquaintance with children's art supplies, with a special guest appearance.

Lotor sends Axca to make checkup rounds on the Altean colony in his stead. Out of all his generals, she is the easiest to disguise as their kin in a body mesh hologram, and knows nearly enough to ruin him, but has opted not to try. The customary robes blunt her silhouette, typically rapier sharp in the angles of Galra armor.

“Nothing unusual to report, sir. Energy consumption levels are at their normal rate. You'll need another stock to replenish the facilities at the end of the decaphoebe.”

(That was not a euphemism they agreed with, but there are larger hills for him to die on. Then again, he can potentially die on any hill, on ant piles, in the arms of a bird-frail man with clever fingers-)

“Are you well, sir?” Axca asks. His listless mood proves no match for her precision.

“Yes, thank you. Nothing to report,” he evades. “You may have noticed the gift I had sent to Zethrid. I'll be here for several phoebes, and I can get you something as well, within reason.”

Her face betrays what is almost a smile, while the rest of her maintains a learned stillness. “I'd like a string instrument, if it isn't too much. I saw them held by street performers in the Dalterion belt slum satellites. It was a circular lute, to be played laying flat on your lap. It doesn't have to be the exact one, but I was always curious about those.”

“I'll see what I can do.” Lotor allows himself some gentleness, ignoring his growing disturbance at how neatly fate arranged such a sequence. It should only be a matter of time before a mishap comes to ruin him.

( _He can get so dramatic,_ Ezor chimes in his head, under the assumption that their first in command was out of earshot.)

The transmission ends. He slips into civilian attire and brings dinner into the common room. Matt is nowhere to be found, but a plain rectangular box with a folded note rests where he would sit. Curious- the package is too light to be a weapon or a bomb. Lotor unfolds the slip; it is adorned with a crude but endearing image of Matt's grinning head, and penned glyphs unfamiliar to him.

Perhaps his kind observe gift giving practices diametrically opposed to Unilu: liberally and often undeserved. Or maybe it is not unlike the twelve quintent Altean courtship ritual, with one present every evening. Lotor nearly chokes in laughter at the thought of being courted formally, but he would be lying if he said he wouldn't welcome it. Better than the frequent danger of potentially being maimed, and then some. If there is one thing he appreciates about his father's side, however, it is that the Galra are far more direct either way.

The box seems fragile; he gambles on the belief that its contents are not unwelcome, and opens the lid. Its contents baffle him. Wafer-thin black panels of an unknown material line the inside as well, with recesses to hold colorful sticks of varying sizes on either sides of the hinges. A delicate white rectangle slots on the lower right, with divots holding odd, similarly bright discs. They are chalky to the touch. It takes little deductive power to understand that these tools are for illustration, but the discs are unusable when welded in place.

He retrieves his notebook from a jacket pocket and carefully removes an orange stick the length of his thumb from its recess. In the company of watchful eyes, Lotor would curb his excitement.

Best to savor it, then. He starts with the ears.

 

* * *

 

As an establishment borne from black market trade, the swap moon still hides gray areas under its now-sanitized veneer. The old blood Galra in charge of this district runs it unusually lax- as long as the Unilu pay required operational fees, the specifics of molehills are unimportant to him. It's ideal for a meeting away from the prying grasp of the Galra state.

 _“The meanderings of cattle are not the business of conquerors,”_ Gramps would quote, singsong and bitter. “Outside the main malls, this sector is swarming with hoodlums, but it doesn't matter as long as that guy gets his money. I can respect that, though.”

Matt arrives at the designated location: a mostly empty, quaint bar with wooden furnishings and black and brown lacquer paintings of trees on its walls. According to Susee, the food in the “seed strip” is uninspiring tourist fodder of questionable edibility, but the drinks are tolerable. He test the air; it smells strongly of mushrooms with the tang of citrus.

(Didn't he eat something like that a few days ago? Sour notes are nonexistent in Unilu gastronomy-)

“I'll have uh- the weakest thing in your drink menu.” He scratches his nose.

The Olkari barkeep nods, and pushes him a plate of fat, roasted mushrooms with a cup of tea, stray red powdered petals staining the rim of the mug. “Your date's gonna be a few doboshes late.”

“We have all night.” The appetizer tastes like a half-decent abstraction of poultry. He shovels the portions into his mouth. “Say, does a guy with ridiculous hair ever come here? White ponytail, half Galra. Gray and navy blue clothes.”

“Don't go dragging civilians into our dirty business,” The stranger growls, more defensive than he has a right to be. Then, calmer- “He's a regular. Comes here to draw the riff-raff. Too polite. Made me look more handsome than I really am-”

“-Got it.”

N-7 arrives 10 doboshes on the dot: a pristine non-organic with a preference for _she,_  with artificial scent receptors installed out of curiosity. They had only met in scheduled calls prior. She is personable, for a robot.

“You need a shower,” she says, too direct for an acquaintance. He chews with an open mouth in reply.

“Hello to you too. The sani-streams were under repairs today. I take it you're kicking me out of the big leagues club.”

“We _were,_ but we are also flabbergasted at how you managed to sell Galran civilians garbage.”

“I convinced them it _wasn't_ garbage,” Matt quips, attempting his best B-parody Han Solo impersonation. “The head honcho made me an honorary Unilu.”

(Both are technically true.)

“You'd do well as an asset to our fund-raising division. This sector is full of scrap metal, and your method circumvents the registration and licensing required for melting forges and other assembly equipment. We'll supply you the power sources and materials for larger production runs.”

Matt stops in mid-chew. “Excuse me?”

“Buy the pretty half-Galra a nice new ship, kid,” the bartender adds, picking what remains of the meal clean off his plate.

 

* * *

 

Matt arrives the following evening, just in time for Lotor to inquire about the colored circles. His companion folds two origami boxes stacked together, pours water into it from a standard issue flask, and uses a brush from the tray to wet the eight discs.

“Watercolors,” he says to the Galra, suddenly shy.

Lotor smiles in excitement at its novelty. “It's more compact in that form! How wonderful. Do you mind me relocating these to a smaller storage space, or is the box a part of it?”

Matt rubs the back of his head with a nervous palm. “The box is cheap plastic. Do what you like. The art supplies aren't very lightfast though, so don't expect your work not to fade over time.”

“How would the average person indulge in the luxury in keeping something so fragile in physical form for that long?” Lotor asks, the concept of lightfastness as abstract as an inside joke from a civilization long dead.

“I dunno,” Matt says, as though he is drifting further away. “Maybe you're the kind to hold onto stuff you don't really need.”

(This wild guess is technically not untrue.)

“Thank you for this.” Lotor clasps his hands, worryingly small in his own. Matt's smile is distant, yet over-fond for someone he's only known for a third of a phoebe.

Lotor squashes the urge to flee. It seems he is always either fleeing, or swallowing the desire to run, like a sword in his throat. Or both, or both and neither, or putting the fire out of immature daydreams occupied by a temporary lover every century, just when he thinks there is nothing left inside of him to burn.

He worries the man's wrist with his thumb, padding small circles onto a pulse. Matt laughs like a warm welcome, and grins smug like the potentially law breaking drifter he is. Burning alive, as it turns out, never gets old.

“Is this flirting, or a Galran friendship handshake?” Matt says with an eyebrow waggle nearing obnoxious.

“It is Altean gift protocol.” Lotor blurts his baldfaced lie stiffly and without laughter. Matt guffaws in reply, and in the veiled gaps of his exaggerated facade, Lotor finds what resembles despair. It gleams like a dark gem in the corners of his mouth; a shared curse. It draws him nearer.

“I like you too,” Matt replies, all sly with a hint of desperation. He closes the distance, a hair breadth apart, but no further. Skilled fingers unravel the bow knot on his hair band and bury themselves in loosened strands, nestling in the curved slope of Lotor's neck.

The both of them grow quiet. Lotor's hands remain at his sides. Matt's eyes shut into a borderline grimace; his palm tremble in the soft nest of the undone plait.

“I'm sorry,” Lotor starts, only to have an index finger held over his mouth.

“Don’t with that shit. You didn't do anything.”

Lotor is unsurprised with the faint twang of disappointment mingled in with his gratitude, and readily, easily, sweeps it aside.

(He's wrong, but it's better not to correct it.)

Matt slides the finger across his lips, slow and near methodical. Lotor stills, failing to categorize the expression as his thumb runs along white brows, then sweeping down to the growing hollows under his eyes. He ambles along his jawline, as though drawing the outline of a portrait.  _Like surveying the topography of a wasteland that requires traveling across,_ Lotor thinks, and it makes him laugh, awful and mirthless.

He's been in character too long. He likes what he is in trade moons better than what he is outside. Both these people are real, and neither of them are, but the one in armor isn't privy to consideration, to sweetness. He relishes the sliver of what appears to be concern on his companion's face, well aware of its expected absence had they met in a less favorable climate.

Matt's hands stop and release. They grasp his own with a brief squeeze, and lets go just as sheepishly. “We oughta draw this out more, but I don't know how long you'll be here.”

The reverence is Altean, but the statement is decidedly Galra.

“Two and a half phoebes.”

“About the same as me, then. The shop contract's been extended, but after that I'll be preoccupied.”

Lotor grasps straying fingers and plants a kiss on the knuckles. Matt sighs, breath muffled against his collarbone. Good thing no one ever ventures into the common room.

“Not nearly long enough. We should enjoy it while we can.”

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Lotor travels to a favored eating spot by the strip of buildings flanking a view of the saffron sea. The ruddy moon, iron rich, stains its waters orange red. He's stopped more than once to enjoy the view; it is always better lit up by day. The food, on the other hand, is a mixed batch. Swap moon strip meat is guaranteed to make one ill; he's picked off vegetable meals the entire stay. His saving grace is an Olkari foodie within travel distance from the motel. His eatery's interior holds less travelers in the morning.

He is about to order one of his usuals when an older woman in ostentatious flight armor walks through the doors. Altean, gray haired; wild eyed. Lotor swallows his surprise. Enough of them could have plausibly survived to hide among the populace outside his colony, but she reads like a historical illustration and carries herself like something very, very old.

His voice comes out weaker that he'd like. “Ma'am, are you lost?”

“I'm searching for someone,” she answers, drained as she all but throws herself onto the nearest bench.

“Think she was stood up by a scammer?” the barkeep whispers, but Lotor is not paying attention.

She searches his eyes with unwarranted familiarity- the Altean in his blood is pronounced enough for those who know what to look for, but her gaze is the thrashing of someone drowning in muck, desperate to cling onto anything-

“I don't think they're coming,” Lotor says gently. Her face falls. "Would you like me to buy you breakfast?"

“...Sure,” she replies slowly, as though something anticlimactic had just occurred.

The tree hen eggs are harvested fresh, and she would likely benefit from a heavier meal. Lotor opts for omelets for both of them, and the field poppy tisane- it tastes close enough to juniberry tea, and sometimes all one needs are reminders of home.

The woman's eyes dart back and forth, and her posture remains guarded, but she accepts the meal with a nod. Lotor turns toward the glass panel facing the sea, and picks at his plate. He is at a loss for words.

“Are you happy here, child?” she asks, watching the languid roll of red waves. She avoids his gaze; her food is untouched. Lotor freezes at the question, but attempts a polite smile.

“Sometimes. It comes and goes. That's how it is with most people, though, so I can't really complain.”

“I'm glad,” she says distantly. The woman spends a few more minutes by his side rearranging bits of egg with her utensil. None of it enters her mouth, but she does finish off the tea before giving him a long glance and exiting the establishment.

He watches the speck of her fade into the horizon. The barkeep packages the leftover eggs without being prompted; mouth pulling into a slight frown.

“It's on the house,” the Olkari says. “Have a sweetheart eat it. I hate wasting good food.”

_Does Matt even like eggs?_

“No promises.”


	4. Ambergris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the specifics of whale vomit, and other delights.

Matt recalls an Earth shoreline while motionless in bed. The last he saw with his family was a crowded tourist trap, with noisy travelers stretched across the hot sand. Katie had picked up a periwinkle shell to take home to put by her dresser sundries: a bright, pastel dead thing among the quieter, paler dead things. Takashi mentioned once that his better half collected worn down bits of sea glass instead, their edges filed down by the relentless barrage of tide.

_Oh my darling Clementine! You are lost and gone forever-_

Prior to space travel, the sea was humanity’s last unknown. It will likely remain a half-abandoned sandbox; after water levels rose, they chose the stars to potentially mine. Humanity rebuffed Earth for gradually blanketing landmass after landmass whole with the flood. Should the Galra ever come, they’d be wishing they chose the sea instead.

How many oceans has Lotor regarded with disinterest? _(Teeth like sharpened pearls, mouth like a monster bowing.)_ Compared to stars dying, the view of an ocean must be a dull event. Matt is surprised that he hasn’t passed the human over like a pebble on the shore, because it’s doubtless that there’s better pickings. Still, he must admit that the ability to play musical instruments is not one commonly encountered in these places. That, and better choices are secondary to the comfort of perceived safety and convenience - likely more of the latter than the former.

_He’s personable for a Galra._

Their arrangement is colored by the tacit agreement of its transience: no comm lines other than the courtesy motel service, no contact information once they part ways, and no hard feelings. It’s convenient and safe for the both of them, and while Matt is imaginative enough to consider alternate outcomes, he also happens to be a realist. Likely, so is this single serve intimate friend, if his bedside manner is any indication.

_(“Hey, if you don’t want that on the menu, you don’t have to.”_

_“It’s sometimes a hassle, and our parts might not even be compatible. I am weighing my options. Are you carrying weapons?”_

_“I left them on the coat rack, remember?”_

_“Ah. Right. My apologies.”)_

Matt sighs and rubs his temples. “He’s just got indigestion right now, or he’s not the kind to rush.”

The comm buzzes. He jumps in alarm, and hastily smooths out wayward strands of hair before picking up. Lotor waves with a polite greeting; the gesture feels stiff in a way that Matt can’t quite place. Maybe he doesn’t have a friends to wave to that often, or maybe he’s accustomed to having limbs folded close to him at all times. Also, despite Susee’s reassurance, there is something about how Lotor carries himself that is less like a wounded cat desperately attempting to minimize the space he occupies, and more like a knife folded to a compact size when not in use.

A reminder to be wary, but it’s not always a warning sign. Knives are carried for protection and necessity.

“Hey. Your hair looks great, babe.”

“Please don’t,” Lotor starts, simultaneously mortified and wearing a smile that fails to match his words. “Are you free later in the evening? I went to the store you suggested, _Terra_. They had a bulky device that I can manage to cook with, and I’ve been meaning to try a hand at the flora this moon has for quite some time.”

Grey advertises those portable camping burners as incendiary weapons; the absolute blunt crayon. It seems, however, that _some_ aliens have common sense.

“You’re cooking in the common room? Man, that would be a terrible time for people to barge in.”

“I’ve made countless stopovers to this area. People are too concerned with being robbed to ever use lounge areas. It was a pleasant surprise to even find you there at all.”

 _Countless stopovers._ Swap moon lodges are economical, if potentially dangerous, places to sleep in, with a wealth of amenities for budget travelers. He’s met his fair share of destitute, shipless wanderers who drift from moon to moon via public transport. It is a common disguise of resistance fighters, many of whom are recruited from such beginnings. Lotor does not strike him as one who chose these accommodations due to difficult circumstances.

Who knows, though. He could be very, very wrong.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Matt says with a grin. “You gonna fatten me up and eat me, sweetheart?”

Lotor snorts a poorly stifled laugh, which Matt promptly catalogues under sights and sounds to play under extreme distress. The alien takes a moment to collect himself. “Don’t make too many jokes while I’m preparing food. Wouldn’t want to burn the tables down.”

He replies with a theatrical sigh. “If I must.”

 

* * *

 

In this dream, hostiles have converted an Altean quarantine pod for containing those infected with treatment resistant diseases into a makeshift cell. It is one of those dreams where he is passenger rather than participant - these worries are for the version of him piloting the body, and not for the version of him asleep in a swap moon. _That guy is thoroughly, unarguably fucked,_ as Matt would say.  

Two Alteans and a few Alteans With Things Wrong With Them. Lotor debates what meal he should prepare in the morning, now that there's a cooking burner for it. Not-Lotor hides his discomfort and gives the coordinates to a Galra base. His eyes meet the smallest one of the group. Panic sets in; this person looks like-

“Why are you staring?”

His other self scrambles to smooth out the offense. A pit of hunger gnaws at the space that last night's meal should have occupied, paired with a dull throb running up and down his arms. He can change the settings from inside the pod once these welcoming guests leave, but doing so may offend. If memory serves, there should still be pills in the suit's wrist compartments.

He shouldn't be feeling any of this, though he's encountered similar phantom aches in times of duress, and is quick to dismiss it. Dream self is desperate for a semblance of decorum, but Lotor is desperate to prolong the ache-free comfort of a fluffed swap moon bed, so he does what is natural and forces control to reach for his medicine case.

They're guarding like he's ready to brandish a weapon. Lotor swallows the capsule. Can he kill himself to induce wakefulness? These are friendly for captors, but his bed is friendlier.

“Ah, er-” the older Altean man starts, a flash of pity furrowing his brow. “The enclosure you're in is an Altean healing pod. You seem to be pain. We can let it run for a few if you'd like.”

“I’m a prisoner,” Lotor says in clipped disbelief, with the vigor of a soldier carrying several sleepless nights under his flesh. Of course. Imprisoned in a sleep pod and offered rest! Only in a wish fulfillment dream.

The man blanches at the reply. “Well, if you prefer natural healing, it's up to you.”

“Nah, look at him,” says the stranger in yellow. “Dude needs to clock out for like, a whole week. We can just wake him up when we get back.”

“How long is a week?” Lotor asks, testing the dream’s boundaries. “Being unconscious for any period of time is a blessing.”

“Hunk, did you get Lotor’s body double for sale at that mall?” the skinny one in a loose jacket quips.

The scene begins to fade at the edges. His body freezes in alarm. (Is it really him who’s frightened, or the stranger in the dream?) Rising chill and steady vapor fogs the glass, and he slumps onto the bed like a worn satchel abruptly emptied of contents. He doesn’t entirely recall agreeing to medicated slumber, but what little attention he was willing to offer has already meandered at the idle chatter, so some agreement must have occurred.

_This is not a problem for the me that isn’t here._

Lotor wakes without pain. He pushes hair out of his eyes, folds the bedsheets, and rubs cold palms together.

 

* * *

 

When Matt arrives, the lounge table is covered in familiar and unfamiliar vegetables, small containers filled with curious spices, and unfolded cooking utensils. The burner is an old model; butane based rather than electric. With the clean sterility of most tools encountered in space, he is willing to bet that this man bought the stove for the novelty of a controlled open flame. Somehow Lotor has also managed to open the window, despite it being employee locked. 

He sits across. Lotor chops a fermented tree nut into thin slices. Gramps mentioned that the Unilu use its apple sized centers as a meat substitute by soaking them in a spice solution to soften its consistency. It seems to be the only store bought thing on the table; the plants are clean and trimmed, but have a freshly foraged smell. Lotor cuts the pieces with alarming speed. He tosses them into the pan in sections, likely by order of cooking time.

Wouldn't that be a story to tell, should he ever return to Earth? _An alien drow made me stir-fry in a seedy motel once. I charmed him with an ugly cigar box guitar made from the scrap remains of my resistance cruiser._

“It smells amazing. You're really good at this.”

“Thank you. It's nothing, really. The woods in the outskirts of the the shopping zones have a lot of lovely things, and their properties are doing most of the work.”

“You're selling yourself short.”

His companion does not reply, suddenly absorbed in the task of trimming roots from aromatic grass. Matt eases into his chair, and reaches for the guitar in his bag. He plays a slow-paced sea shanty while the other cooks, taking note of how Lotor visibly relaxes at the sound.

“What is that song? I like it.”

“It's a whaling song. Before space travel or advanced technology, humans used to hunt for these huge sea creatures to use as oil, and they'd sing on their ships while working.”

“That sounds like something out of a fairy tale,” Lotor says with gentle fascination.

He unfolds a slim wedge of metal, which fans out into a full sized plate to be loaded with the meal. The irony of his comment is not lost on Matt, but he accepts it without rebuttal. Good food deserves a few moments of silence.

“Do you like to cook?” Matt asks, taking long, appreciative pauses in between swallows.

“Yes,” Lotor answers, filling containers with scrap cuttings to discard. “I don’t get to do it often, so I'm always happy to do so when I have the opportunity.”

Broke drifters don't normally have access to cooking devices. This part of his story checks out, but not others.

“I know Grey advertises these as limited use, but they're not. They use a replaceable fuel cartridge, so you can use an approximate and take it with you if you can get it manufactured. Terra has a few enthusiasts who specialize in making replacement mods, and I can introduce them to you.”

“What oil does it use?”

“Butane. Petroleum based.”

“...Wow.”

Matt frowns. “Is this a bad wow or a good wow?”

“It’s surprise. I just prepared a meal with the help of hazardous gas,” Lotor says with a quiet chuckle. “I suppose that's what I get for trying to cook with something advertised as a gag gift flame shield.”

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Matt eats yesterday's leftovers for breakfast while on call with N-7. Clearly, she has no concern for this breach of decorum, and is preoccupied with wiping grime off the chrome of her arm. She elaborates details on the fundraising operation.

Matt's listening port, a defunct factory satellite that once produced cruise ships, would receive a new Balmeran crystal and usable scrap metal to mass produce instruments and small toys. It would be like using a sword to cut toast- unorthodox, but capable of more volume than a butter knife. They would then distribute it to their connects in swap moons. The Unilu still remember old Galra chokeholds on their trade that drove them to creating their now-sanitized black market webs, rendering them eager to cater to rebels.

 _Revenge is worth a lot more than money,_ as Gramp’s favorite proverb goes.

“That would make the section for paint applications operational again. No one would know these are made from scrap pieces if we could get a bulk supplier.” Matt rubs his chin, remembering Grey's comment on Galra youth trends. “We could potentially get this one brand if we say that the order is for an artist colony, to minimize suspicion. Those are popular with counterculture citizens right now.”

“Good thinking,” N-7 replies. “I believe we can arrange that. Do you have any other questions?”

“Am leaving this place for good, after that?”

“Your primary functions will be product assembly and manning the listening station. To leave you in charge of a small retail shop would be a waste of skill.”

“Just checking,” Matt says, shoveling down what remains of the stir fry.

He calls Lotor as soon as the transmission with N-7 ends. From the half lidded eyes and tousled appearance, the man appears to have slept in. He does not show irritation at being woken up, mouth forming into a small smile.

“Morning. You have any plans? I have a day off from the mall for the Galra holiday. I mean, you would know that, but yeah. Is there anywhere you're interested in?”

“I had plans to be unconscious for the anniversary of emperor Zarkon's Kral Zera,” Lotor says. The statement speaks volumes, but Matt is afraid to press the subject. “My second choice is the beach.”

“Sorry for waking you,” Matt replies, feeling genuine remorse. “Is the water safe to swim in?”

“Yes, if your skin is not particularly sensitive to traces of iron and other metals that give it its color.”

“It probably is.”

“Ah. Well, then it is not safe to swim in.”

Matt cannot help but chuckle at his bland delivery, and Lotor does not appear to take offense at his amusement. “I've wanted a chance to get a closer look since I got here. I'll come anyway, to make up for waking you.”

“Much appreciated. Why would you want to swim in it anyway?”

“Humans swim in beaches,” Matt says slowly.

“And hunt whales for oil,” Lotor adds, entranced with this new information. “Fascinating.”

“Past tense,” he corrects. “See you then.”

They agree to meet at the tree sculpture by the boardwalk; it is a tacky rose gold and difficult to miss. Matt packs extra snacks, a spare coat, and at least two concealed weapons. Once can never be too sure, despite the tourist trap strips by the shoreline being relatively clean and heavily guarded. Lotor is waiting on a front bench facing away from the statue when he arrives, sketchbook in his lap. He is drawing the line of shops with colored pencils from the cheap set Matt gifted him (well, cheap for Earth but slightly inflated in space). He waves at the alien, rushing to sit beside him.

“So, is your plan is to draw all day?” Matt asks, cheeks cold from the morning wind.

“My plan is to draw all day while you tell me your strange ocean stories,” Lotor says with a mischievous grin. “Do you eat whales, too?”

“Sure did,” Matt says, shaking his head. He’s really stuck with this until evening. The things he does for moderate levels of trust and affection. “We also used to make corsets out of their bones, and we still make perfume out of their very rare bile duct secretions.”

“E-excuse me?” 

“They eat really sharp things that their intestines coat with secretions to make them pass easier, and sometimes they vomit these secretions out. We put it in overpriced, sometimes illegal perfume.”

“Wow.” Lotor flips to a blank page, and begins to draw Matt’s profile. “Tell me more.”

“I can tell you a high school summary of Lord of the Flies,” Matt says, picking up shining red detritus in the sand. A gleaming dead thing. Katie would love this.

“You’re selling me with the name alone.”

“Alright then.” He gestures grandly towards the sea. “We took a very long time to get even primitive space travel, so for nearly all of our history, the ocean was the final frontier. We have a ton of metaphors involving it, and that’s the preamble you need to know to understand this story.”   
  
“This story takes place in an era with limited technology. Understood.”

“OK, so, it takes place in a huge war, and an aircraft carrying school children is shot down. They land in a tropical island. No comms or anything back then, but the two of of the boys find a conch shell to use as a horn, so they use that to call the other kids scattered around the island. They make the main character, Ralph, their leader, and they make this other boy, Jack, to be in charge of the hunting party that brings food back.”   
  
“Why isn’t Jack the leader?” Lotor interrupts. “If his combat skills are superior, it seems a more obvious choice.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I think he was a tool or something.”

“Fair.” Lotor’s fingers make elegant swoops to render unkempt chunks of Matt’s hair, momentarily distracting him.

“Anyway, three of the boys, Ralph, Jack, and this messiah metaphor, Simon, make a survey of the island. Ralph decides that they need a signal fire so passing ships can find them and rescue them, and they use this kid Piggy’s glasses to light it. But they’re kids, so they play around and neglect the fire, and it toasts a good portion of the forest. One of the youngest children go missing.”

“These are very undisciplined children,” Lotor says dryly. “Perhaps their education has been inadequate.”

Matt ignores his comment, pausing while the other continues to draw. (He is personable, but still Galra.) “They’re enjoying their time without adult supervision, and neglect the act of keeping the fire lit, despite Ralph insisting on it. Jack’s hunting party gets too obsessed with hunting, and they forget the responsibility of keeping up with the signal fire. A ship passes by with it unlit. They finally get their first kill, and are too consumed by bloodlust to care about anything else. Ralph is furious with them.”

“I take back my comment on Jack.”

“Right.” Matt bites his lip and watches the sea. “I’m not sure if I want to finish the story.”

Lotor’s face is awash with concern. “That’s fine. Do you mind at least telling me who the Lord of the Flies is?”

“It’s the sow Jack kills. They stick its head on a pike, and Simon visits it when it’s decayed and covered in flies. It talks to him. Says he’s inescapable because he’s inside everyone. Simon is horrified and goes to tell everyone what he saw but they kill him when they see his shadow come out from the forest.”

“I see.” Lotor nods, as though ruminating. “I don’t suppose they ever make it out of the island?”

“They do,” Matt says, well aware that these questions are strategically placed to get the ending out of him anyway. He can't muster enough offense to care. “But no one’s there to save the soldiers from the war. That’s the moral of the story. Something like that. I don’t know where I was going with this. Anyway, you made me look better than how I actually look.”

“I pride myself in my accuracy,” he replies stiffly.

"Flatterer. Do you want a fruit bar? I packed a few."  

(It jars him, how easily he softens up at this. Well, he'll see where they'll be two months from now.) 

 


	5. Fist Shaped Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know,” Lotor says, as though resigned. “Sometimes I want to throw myself into the damn thing.”

Matt wakes face down on the sand. The air is fresh with salt and damp palms. He sits up, and finds his body to be smaller than the one he currently resides in- it has trappings of old softness, before the resistance, before he became acquainted with blood. His glasses still rest on the bridge of his nose, slightly askew and filmy from a fresh coat of seawater. By the beach edge where sea meets an imposing cliff of rock, is the smoldering remains of his ship. It is not divided into small pieces to be made into instruments, and if this dream’s set dressing is any indication, then Lotor must either be hunting boar, or communing with the pig's severed head.

He makes his way into the green clearing to search for him, but not before looking at the peak of the landmass to find the fire lit. A heavy, burning sun stings the bare flesh of his back. His feet are newly divorced of lost shoes and quickly collect scrapes from twigs and scattered rocks. At the entrance of a cave is the boar and its halo of gleaming flies, with no Lotor to be found. Matt covers his mouth at the rotting stench.

 _You think he will harm you,_ it suggests, with a voice that is more ocean than speech.

“He could be a mercenary hunting for resistance members,” Matt says, swatting at pests that hurry towards reddened skin. “He could be lulling me into a false sense of security.”

_You are too green. You have no bounty. What use are you to hunters if you bear no value?_

“Tell me where he is,” Matt growls, the novelty wearing thin.

The boar laughs at him. Its cruelty is like the roar of approaching flood.

_By the signal fire. Go after him._

Matt does, and climbs the peak with a steady, rising anger; at Lotor, at the Galra- at himself and his powerlessness. He closes the distance; Lotor's back is to him, smaller too, with hair cut above his shoulders. The alien sits slumped by the flame, occasionally tossing it scraps of wood. The human picks up a branch from the ground; heavy and sharpened to a point.

“You know,” Lotor says, as though resigned. “Sometimes I want to throw myself into the damn thing.”

The weapon falls from his hand.

“Or maybe let it consume the island. Toss myself into the sea. It's a lost cause. I've been trudging at this lost cause for centuries, now.”

“Lotor,” Matt says, for want of filling an absence.

“I’m waiting it out. I like you a lot. You’re making it tolerable.”

The human wavers, hand reaching out but grasping nothing. Neither of them speak, until finally, Matt rustles through his shorts pocket for a shattered pair of glasses and hands it over.

(So much smaller in this dream, the damn Galra. Like he can break even tinier, into sprays finer than the sea.)

The boy holds his spectacles close to his heart, and begins to sob.

 

* * *

 

  _Lotor’s mother wads the thread into a fine marble and leaves it in her pocket. With each universe destroyed that fails to meet her expectations, she ceases her traveling to momentarily admire the gem. Let this be her one indulgence._

_Here, her son is morning dew on a tattered tree, too good for her wicked heart. She dares not touch him._

 

* * *

He wakes face down on his bed. The air is stale because he rarely opens the window. He rises, and checks the pillow for his sketchbook. It is never with him in dreams, and it is therefore a good indicator of wakefulness. After grabbing the nearest pencil, he flips to an empty page and tries to remember the shape of the boar. There are the flies, the congealing, blackening blood, and Matt, fists curled bloodless, vice grip against his spear.

“I should have let him,” Lotor says with a hum and a smile, and draws his friend (friend?) with a scowl.

He looks best when he is scowling. It’s Matt’s smoke and mirrors vanished away, leaving only the core, brutal as it gleams. It must be a rare sight- makes it all the better. That’s more of the Matt he wants to see, but of course, asking for such a thing would be unfair, because Lotor is not willing to offer the same honesty. Honesty and a facade of unfulfilled wishes as a veneer are not quite the same thing.

But for now, there is data to sift through and generals to check up on. And Matt too, because the nagging belief that he is a trap laid out by the witch needs to be either confirmed or put to rest.

(In the Balmera are white crystal lice as small as a speck of salt, used like the seasoning by psychically linked residents of the beast, and easily mistaken for the mineral. He had sneaked them in the food they had both eaten for a temporary glimpse into his friend’s day. This particular strain is engineered to only listen one way. Disgusting and cowardly, just like him. The effects should wear off by the time it is flushed out.)

It’s been a loud morning. He can feel the frantic palpitation of the man’s strange, alien heart, There’s foreign vibrations of weak, delicate flesh, the fine veil of sinew and veins; the timber of his knife sharp voice. Lotor lays in bed and shuts his eyes to savor it.

“So. Five lions that transform into a giant robot,” Matt says. “Cute.”

A comm conversation, most likely.

“Correct,” says a second voice, dimmer. Not sinking syllables into his flesh. Nowhere near as interesting. “Certain, more primitive planets have mystery cults surrounding the mech, and new ones are forming as we speak. Likely, it is very old. It’s freed a few Galra strongholds, but their tendency to leave immediately afterwards makes system wide destabilization a threat to their more vulnerable targets.”

“I take that back. Not cute.”

“Keep them at the back of your head, should they cross paths with us. They may be friendly enough, and useful to the resistance.”

Oh, thank the stars. He’s just a resistance member. Not a spy sent by his mother to seduce him and drag him home.

“Sorry Matt,” Lotor whispers, knowing he won’t be heard. “No way in hell you underfunded penny rouges can kill my dad. I’ve tried.”

Lotor clutches his chest, tossing against the bed. Matt’s heart is the frantic pulse of a small bird’s wing, too fast even at rest, and dizzying in mild stress. He want hold his mouth to the frantic organ; taste the fear there, and carry it in his stead. Like tears pressing at the back of your lips; unshed. He’ll swallow it whole.

40 instruments sold. A four armed embrace from the Unilu who adopted him as his son- he must have. The grain bars he eats are strictly reserved for family members. Service with a smile, occasionally pushing back his hair. A poor appetite when eating alone. A heart genuine to the point of dangerous.

Lotor thinks he is in love, or whatever approximation he’s managed over the centuries. He ought to know better by now.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve spent _all day_ in bed?”

“I’ve been unwell,” Lotor deflects with a sheepish smile.

Matt enters his room without ceremony, dumping takeout onto a desk and pressing a hand to his forehead- only to quickly withdraw. “Right. Sorry. Doesn’t work that way.”

“What do you mean? I quite like that.”

He quickly pours soup for the both of them, with extra heapings for his companion. “On earth, our temperature goes up when we’re sick. What I just did is a shorthand for figuring out a fever.”

“Ah,” says the alien, looking down at his bowl. “I assumed it was an affectionate gesture.”

“Technically it is, I guess. If the person does it instead of using a thermometer, you’re probably really close. They know your body by heart.”

Lotor swallows conspicuously. Matt grins, and stands up to kiss him on the forehead.

“Are you _sick_ sick or are you depression sick?”

“Neither,” he says, grave and quiet. “Thank you for the food.”

“Mm. Tough day?”

“The same.”

“You spend most of it drawing or… whatever it is you do. What do you do, anyway, Lotor? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I hide.”

A whistle noise, and a strange, relieved smile. “Well, I’m not here to pass judgment.”

They eat in silence. Matt gets to three fourths of the meal, but then rises again to cradle Lotor's head close to his chest, holding it there. The man slackens in his firm, unwavering hands. _I figure you need it,_ he wants to say, but silence seems the better policy. He cards through long hair as though comforting a child. Lotor does not move, or make a sound. 

Matt finds himself humming. _Amazing Grace used to mean something,_ his grandfather would often to say, still clinging to the vestiges of his old religion. It is a comforting enough song, but if anything, most of the grace he's experience has been of the mundane variety, made graceful by their perfect timing.

Lotor grasps his shirt. He's seen this in a religious painting once, only in Matt's place was the portrait of the saint. It doesn't mean anything. It shouldn't, anyway. Taking a strand of pale hair and pressing it to his lips doesn't mean anything either.

He leans down. Their kiss is languid; hesitant. Lotor finds purchase in his shoulders and Matt swears up and down he can taste tears in his mouth, like ocean brine. He fumbles with the fastenings on Lotor’s shirt and leaves a trail of muffled words under his jaw-

_-amazing grace, how sweet the sound, to save a wretch like me_

“You’re not a wretch,” Lotor says with an anguished laugh, and Matt promptly kisses him to silence the rest.

 

* * *

 

 

**-**-***

_(present day, present time)_

_The ears are quite fascinating. It reminds me very much of the Altean shape, but rounded rather than pointed. His overall constitution seems to be weaker than even an Altean in old age, though he makes up for it in musical ability. The similarities are very striking; too similar to be a coincidence. I can't help but wonder if his far off planet is an abandoned genome project; they have plenty of those in the backwater regions. They tend to destroy those. Perhaps this one survived because... well, that much is self explanatory. No Alteans left to clean up their messes._

_I'm prone to idealizing them, but I'd best not forget that they are the other side of the Galra's coin._

__

_\---_

_I enjoy the shape so much! So soft and rounded. He's very much an amalgamation of soft and rounded edges with bits of sharpness. The contrast is unusual._

_____

__

_I wish I could tell him-_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit short; I've been a bit preoccupied. I make no claims that I have the same art skills as someone who's been drawing for centuries, but I really want sketchbook portions in the future.
> 
> Special thanks to [Toberu Mono (Thaehan Remix)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_T-l4f2w8g)


	6. Familial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter involving families.

In the clinical light of the common room, Matt sits ramrod straight, facing Lotor as he makes brushstrokes against cream paper. These are not the paints he gifted him; they are dissolving caplets that dilute into shallow divots of water in a well worn tray. (I’d rather save those for special occasions, Lotor has said, but Matt thinks this is just courtesy.) He can’t help but steal glances at the image, a blob of shapes quickly forming into a portrait.

Too intimate, Matt swears, even beyond a kiss and the meeting of flesh. Lotor captures details he’s forgotten were there; the scar still raw and foreign; the dark circles under his eyes. Quality time with a mirror is far from his list of priorities, and Lotor has captured all these details in stark, faithful reverence. He wants to balk, but fusses in his chair instead.

“Those dry pretty fast. I think my friend Susee would be interested in them. What are those? they don’t sell them here.”

“They’re Black Poppy brand. It doesn’t have much of a foothold in this sector. They market them towards travelers. The paint capsules can also be dissolved as a nutritional tea that cleans dirty water.”

“Huh. Neat.”

(Dad would love these.)

“Yours are more portable and require less water, so I’d rather use them when I’m out and about.” Lotor turns the paper towards him. “What do you think so far?”   
  
Matt smiles, crooked but earnest. It’s only been a few minutes, and it already looks complete. “Looks just like the dude.”

“I would hope so!” Lotor grins, and continues on. “You know, there’s this other art supply brand that’s popular among Galra youth. Has Susee tried those?”

“Susee’s not a fan of Veeres. They’re all over the shops here, but she usually buys weird second-hand stuff instead.”

“Wouldn’t blame her. They haven’t changed their formulas in centuries. But Galra like it that way. They like things that are certain.”

“And you don’t?” Matt ventures.

“For survival, yes, but not for paint.” Lotor says, and Matt remembers.

He later tucks the painting in his scant collection of precious items, in a small satchel among his other belongings. It is slightly smaller than a palm, and wedged between two stiff pieces of card to minimize crumpling. Restless in the passage of night, alone, he looks it over and remembers a food joint owner claiming that Lotor has made him more handsome than he was in his portrait.

Matt hovers a nail against the worn, blotted colors under his eyes; his little scar, and the dedicated, faithful strokes that made up his hair. It is truthful and ugly, but Lotor has captured the ugliness as though they were scarlet tree flowers in the mall’s fear garden: rendered new and beautiful and stripped of its meaning.

Or maybe his suffering has meaning to Lotor, an unspoken thing to be noticed without words. Either way, he dares not ask.

 

* * *

Katie arrives at his shop unannounced, like a Deus ex Machina unceremoniously dropped at his feet. Matt nearly shatters a guitar as they rush to meet each other, a flurry of fabric and vicious embracing. The tears sting like needles. He doesn’t know how long until he realizes she is not alone, accompanied by a tall stranger clad in yellows with an anxious smile.

She introduces them to each other. Explains Voltron, that they’ve been here before, but back then, this place was a candy shop. She wipes tears from his eyes. Matt digs into his boot and returns her harmonica, rendered mute in awe and carefully stifled shame. 

He’s happy their meeting is a peaceful one, but expected something with more fanfare. (Or tragedy, whatever came first) It’s a gift horse with perfect teeth, nonetheless, so he closes the shop early because his quota has been met. He introduces her to all his friends, omits the part about Voltron, and after confirming that they’ll be staying longer, walks her and her friend to the motel common room.

Lotor is there with a table full of paintings, picking a melody on one of his box guitars that Matt didn’t teach him. Hunk swallows.

“Uh,” Pidge interjects. “Is this a friend of yours?”   
  
“Yes,” Matt and Lotor say in unison, then proceed straight to nervous silence.

“What ARE THOSE?” Hunk interjects, in awe of a scattered collection of postcard sized watercolor illustrations of flowers.

“This is Lotor. We’ve both been at this trade moon for a while. Good guy. He feeds me sometimes.”

“That’s quite an introduction. Looks like I have more people to feed tonight then, I assume?”

“I can do it if you need a break,” Hunk says. Pidge agrees profusely.

The conversation disintegrates into scattered, excited interjections about paint, and “it’s been so long,” and “can you play that again?” Despite being visibly Galra, the two of them accept his friend (friend? lover?) easily enough. An elaborate conversation about ingredient substitution occurs in between other idle talk, and at some point Hunk and Lotor leave to forage the local area for ingredients, and Matt is left alone with his sister.

“He seems nice,” Pidge says at last. “I’ve never got close to a Galra civilian before. Does he do children’s books?”

“I think he does whatever’s available,” Matt replies, unsure himself.

“Makes sense.” A pause. “This is what you do now? You got broken out of prison, right.”   
  
Ah.  _ That. _ “I’m actually resistance. This is a fundraising front.”

“...Holy shi-”

“I hope you guys like tree nuts!” Hunk’s singsongy voice calls from across the hall. He and Lotor return with receptacles filled with vegetables and roots, seemingly washed from the nearest stream.

“I only have a propane burner. Will that do? Also, what’s this burrito you speak of?”

As it turns out, Lotor is overly enthusiastic about the discovery of said burritos, excited at having found the perfect meld of carb, protein, and produce. The night ends with dinner, lavish praises on Hunk being a culinary genius, and long, extended goodbyes. When the room empties with the two of them left, Matt examines his friend. Pidge and Hunk have both conveniently omitted Voltron from their discussion of him, just as Matt has conveniently omitted all mentions of resistance. Lotor, as far as he can tell, does not mind their mutual secret keeping, likely having a litany of his own.

And yet.

“When did you learn to play that?”   
  
“Susee had a spare. She’s been teaching me this whole time. I wanted until I was competent to show you. Your sister seems lovely, by the way.” 

“Show me now,” Matt insists.

Lotor sits besides him and obliges. The melody was clear; precise, a composition of longing and ordinary despair, carried like a burden in a bag. What both of them failed to put into words were laid bare by song; their barrier of secrets and restraint acknowledged, but left untouched.

“I don’t know anything about you,” Lotor says as the song fades. “And likewise you with me. It’s safe that way. We’ve both agreed to it without saying anything.”

“Would you like to know me?”

“Not if you don’t want me to know you. Not if you only want me to know parts that aren’t difficult to offer. I can respect that.”

“Likewise. Also, you know I have a sister,” Matt replies, the both of them unconvinced.

“I’m an only child,” Lotor offers. “I draw and paint.”

“And cook, and play guitar, now.”

“Right.” He puts the instrument away. “I know you care for me, and that’s more than I expected to get.”

 

* * *

 

“N-7, besides my storefront, does the resistance have other notable backers?”   
  
“Several anonymous ones. Our wealthiest is a paint company called Black Poppy. They fund us indirectly, and have been able to hide under the radar due to the supposed frivolity of their products.”

“Wait. Didn’t we just use them to paint my new instruments?”

“Correct. Where is this conversation heading to?”

“Do we know the head?”

“No. It’s a large company, and consequences would be dire if our connections were to be found out.”

In between his job and meetings with Lotor, Matt spends his spare time researching, of all things, a paint company, to be met with dead ends. It is an elusive, vaporware-like brand, resold in seedy planets, and in the tents of many a traveler. When asked where it came from, every answer is a different response. Its ingredients for the travel set, however, are a constant: pigments made from flora and fauna from trade moons for the dilutable tea brands. Likely an Unilu. Of course they’d have bones to pick with Galra, and would attempt to topple them in the most indirect way possible.

“Our donor is Gramps,” Matt jokes.

“Quit dicking around,” N-7 retorts, having long since acquired some of his less palatable mannerisms. “Some things, you don’t need to know.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lotor dreams of his mother with a frequency that alarms him by how much he isn’t alarmed by it. She is dark and beautiful, in regal attire with well kempt hair. Almost Altean. He swears she’s seen him like this before somewhere, but the memory is a dingy fog against cheap glass. Here, they are drinking floral wine with undercooked eggs, and she apologizes for her incompetence.

“Eh, they’re fine,” Lotor says, even though they are not.

“I think it’s too late for me to make amends,” Honerva says, picking at the contents of her plate.

“I wish this were really you,” he answers, hand approaching hers. She is inconceivably warm; almost burning. “I’d love to actually hear that from her mouth. But here, I can pretend you’re actually saying these things to me, and making me really bad eggs.”

“They really are terrible, aren’t they?”

“Well, yes, but the real you never made me eggs.”

He stuffs mouthfuls of it in between sentences. Disgusting. He loves them.

“How would you make good sunny side?”   
  
“You have to cover them to let the steam circulate, mother.”   
  
“We let the servants make them for us, you and your father.”   
  
Lotor flinches. “Nothing undignified about making your own eggs.”

“Fair.”

They’re at the beach, their bare white table facing the sunset. Lotor downs the wine. It feels like her, but it’s not. Or at least, it’s a version of her who’s done more to try to make it up to him than the real deal.

“You’ve done the best you could with utter garbage. I love you and I’m sorry.”

“I try,” Lotor says dryly, unable to choke the sincerity out of his throat.

 

* * *

 

Morning comes.   


Zarkon dies.

His real mother demands his presence. Lotor gets all his affairs arranged, and decides to run instead, but not without leaving an apology note.

  
  



End file.
